Suspension
by Scheherazade
Summary: Fantasy AU. Main pairing 3+4, contains both yaoi and het. Quatre's an assassin after Trowa, who seems to know everything... (Part 4 uploaded)
1. Prologue

Title: Suspension (Prologue)

Author: Scheherazade

Email: desertrose@gundamwing.org

Pairings: Eventual 3+4

Warnings: AU / nothing else as of yet

Notes: Fantasy-type AU. It'll get better, I promise. ^_^ I'm not too fond of this part. Just read it quickly and get it over with so Part 1 will make sense.

/…/--thoughts

*…*--italics

The night was completely black--no moon, no stars. Quatre peered through the darkness at the Dancing Cat Inn, eyes roving over the side of the building until they found the right window. Somewhere in that room was his target of the night.

He couldn't believe his luck--the shutters were wide open! No one with a scrap of sense left their window open at night in the city. /Figures he's done something to get himself killed over./

Ten minutes later, he had scaled the wall and was clinging flattened next to the open window. The high, breathy strains of some beautiful instrument floated into the night, weaving an eerie melody that completely hypnotized Quatre. He shook himself angrily, almost losing his grip in the process. /Wake *up*, Quatre!/ 

Completely silently, he edged over and peered inside the room. A tall brown-haired man was seated on the edge of a cot, eyes closed as his fingers danced across a flute. Quatre couldn't believe it--this man was an *idiot*! Anyone who so much as visited Al-Rassan--gateway to the vast Rassan desert--knew to watch their step. /Just makes it easier for me, I guess./

He slipped inside, pausing on the wide sill for a moment. Then in one swift, sudden movement, he was across the room, the tip of a blade pressed to the musician's throat.

His victim --Trowa Barton--froze. 

"I'm supposed to kill you," Quatre said softly. "However, I give everyone one last chance. Answer this question correctly, and you go free."

Barton's eyes snapped open in surprise. For a long moment, he stared at Quatre, almost as though trying to see through him.

"What's the question?" he finally asked in a low monotone.

"What's the symbol of the Raberba clan?"

The Raberbas were one of the many tribes that wandered the Rassan desert, remote and solitary. Quatre was a Raberba--one of the few who ever left the desert to live elsewhere, harsh and unyielding though it was. He had never met an outsider who knew anything more about the desert clans than rumors and half-remembered legends, even in Al-Rassan. It was safe to say that this fellow--a *Northerner*--would know even less.

"A stooping hawk."

"What?" Quatre gasped.

"Their symbol is a stooping hawk."

It was suddenly hard to breathe. Their was no way, no possible way… "Have you ever met a Raberba?" Quatre demanded, cold fear suddenly clutching at his heart. What if he had been about to kill an honorary clanbrother?

"No."

Thank the gods for small blessings, at least. Quatre spun around and dashed for the window, scrambling through and quickly descending the wall. As he dashed away through the narrow streets, one question dominated his thoughts. 

/Who the hell is he, anyway?/ 

* * *

Even after the strange assassin had gone, Trowa Barton couldn't move from the edge of the cot. 

When had an assassin last gotten past his guard? Not for a very long time, that was for sure. Even though he gave an appearance of carelessness to the point of foolishness--all right, he practically set up an open invitation to criminals--every fibre of his being was tensed and on the alert, *ready* for something just like what had just happened. 

How had that one managed it? 

Trowa shuddered. It was too close. Much, much too close.

*****

One final note: Yes, the name Al-Rassan is shamelessly swiped from "The Lions of Al-Rassan" by Guy Gavriel Kay. ^_^


	2. Part 1

Title: Suspension (Part 1)

Author: Scheherazade

Email: [desertrose@gundamwing.org][1]

Pairings: Eventual 3+4, 2+H

Warnings: AU / nothing else as of yet

/…/--thoughts

*…*--italics

"You WHAT?"

Quatre gritted his teeth. "I asked him a mercy question. He answered it right."

"But you're supposed to be the *best*--"

"I am the best," he interrupted, glaring at the stocky man in front of him. "It doesn't mean I'm completely without morals. Listen, how many times have you already tried to kill him?"

"Nine," the man muttered grudgingly.

"How many of the others came back alive?"

"None."

Quatre struggled fiercely not to show his shock. /He's defeated *nine* professional assassins? And acting that foolish? Gods…/ All he said, though, was "See? I've gotten farther than anyone else. If you like, I'll try again tonight. He'll probably be expecting me, though, so it will be more difficult. Which means--it's going to cost you."

* * *

Sometime later, Quatre strolled into a dimly-lit, perfume-scented room. He heard the slight rustle of silks, and suddenly a low, breathy voice at his shoulder said, "Why, *Quatre*. What can I do for you?"

The blond smiled affectionately. "Doesn't work on me, Cathy."

"Humph." A slender young woman with curly auburn hair moved into what little light there was and pouted. "Can't blame me for trying." 

Quatre laughed and ruffled her hair, causing her to scowl at him in indignation. "Is Duo around?" he asked. 

"I think he's in his room. If not, Hilde will know where he is--I think she's at the market."

"Thanks, Cathy,"

"Anytime." She winked at him before slinking away towards a man who had just come through the door. "How may I help you…sir…"

Upstairs, Quatre made his way to Duo's "office", studiously ignoring the various noises coming from the other rooms. Even though it was bright daylight outside, he could barely see. It was with a feeling of relief that he finally reached the room at the end of the hall. He knew that inside, two large windows flooded the room with daylight--and it was soundproof. 

He knocked on the door in a particular odd pattern to let Duo know who it was before entering. Inside, the black-clad young man was sprawled in a chair, adding up a long column of figures. He appeared absorbed in his work, so absorbed that when Quatre said "Duo?" he didn't even hear.

The blond tried again. "Duo? Duoooo…" He moved over and waved a hand in front of the Northerner's face. He was humming to himself, apparently oblivious.

Quatre sighed. "All right, all right. *Shinigami*." 

Immediately, Duo sprang out of his chair, grinning widely. "Heya, Quatre! Long time, no see!"

"You saw me yesterday."

He shrugged. "You never know what can happen in a few days. Like, maybe you'd have come here to find Catherine had taken over the business and abducted Hilde or something--" 

Quatre couldn't help but laugh. "If you say so. How is Hilde, anyway? I haven't seen her for quite awhile."

"She's great. At the moment, telling 'fortunes' to travelers for absolutely obscene prices. It almost makes me jealous. So what brings you to the deep, dark, thieving underworld today? And how did your job last night go?"

"This has to do with that, actually. Have you ever heard of a man called Trowa Barton?"

Immediately, the grin disappeared and Duo gaped at him. "You took a commission on *Trowa Barton*? And lived to tell about it?" He let out a low whistle. "Man, oh man, I knew you were good, but…"

"How come I've never heard of him?" Quatre demanded. "If he's really taken out nine of us, I should know something!"

"Trowa's from up north," Duo explained. "You know I used to live there until only a few years ago--he's a damn *legend* among the underworld back there. And he's killed more than nine assassins after his life. Quite a few more."

Quatre shook his head in disbelief as Duo continued. "So he's here, huh? Out of anywhere else to run to, I expect." There was a bitter edge in Duo's voice, and a fierce gleam in his eyes. "If only I was as good as you!"

"Why is everyone out for his blood anyway? Just what did he do?" Quatre was extremely curious about this strange man. 

"I'll answer that if you'll answer one question for me. How did he get away?"

Quatre flushed slightly. "He answered a mercy question." /The only one who ever has./

"WHAT? You mean you just--ah, never mind." Duo slumped back down in the chair. "I already know how you feel about honor and all that. Still--what I wouldn't give to have been in your place!" He sighed. "Never mind. This will be kind of a long story--got the time?"

Quatre shrugged. "I've got nothing better to do."

"Then…let's see what I remember. The Bartons were just about the richest, most powerful and influential family in the kingdom of Ellthrie, not even excepting the royal line. Triton Barton, the patriarch and Trowa's grandfather, was the guiding force behind the High Council, where the real power is. They had inherited or married into more than half the lands in the kingdom. Everything was going swimmingly when Trowa was born. Actually, he was named Triton, after dear old grandad, but he changed his name later. I'll get to that."

"Anyway," the young man continued, "Trowa, the oldest son of Linnaea and Reisin, bid fair to carry on in the family tradition--corrupt, dishonest, and underhanded as hell. I mean, at least we're honestly criminal, right? But then, when he was fifteen--something happened. I don't know what, he never told me. Whatever it was, it came completely out of the blue. One day during a Council meeting, Trowa calmly walked in and announced that he was breaking his betrothal to Midii Une, severing any ties with the Barton family, and changing his name to Trowa. Then he walked out like nothing had happened."

"Old Triton just about had a seizure right then and there. The Bartons set all sorts of people on his trail and sent out searches and stuff, of course. But they didn't come up with anything. Then reports began coming in from the outskirts of the kingdom. Raids and robberies were popping up all over, with one thing in common-- all the lands victimized belonged to the Bartons. Well, they were all twisted up about who could be targeting them and why, until one night, about a year later, a laundrymaid discovered the key to the puzzle."

"She was up in the middle of the night---no one's ever explained why, but I have a pretty good idea, knowing Dekim Barton's propensities--and she caught sight of dear Trowa, riding hell-for--leather out of there. The next day, it was discovered that a good portion of the Lady's jewels were discovered missing and all the horses had been set free from the stables, she put two and two together and reported it to Dekim, who immediately sent a message off to Triton."

"Trowa was finally officially disowned and a huge, elaborate game of cat-and-mouse began. He made life absolutely miserable for the Bartons, and they in turn kept him on the run, with a new attempt on his life at least once a month."

"Trowa began to take a few very selective commissions, not like ours. They were only for people I can only describe as evil--personally, I believe he was doing the world a favor. That naturally got even more people after him. Then he met Heero Yuy, became screwed up in politics--among other things--, lost his so-called sense of 'right', and that was the last I heard of him until now." Duo leaned back in the chair, finished.

Quatre could only shake his head slowly. 

"I wonder who's after him this far south," Duo mused. "The Bartons would be happy to see him so far away from their lands…and none of the others would dare to kill Yuy's pet…" 

Quatre had only one question left. "How do you *know* all this? I mean--"

Duo's eyes shuttered. "Trowa used to be my best friend."

Quatre knew better than to ask more. He only said, "I accepted an offer to try again tonight. Do you mind? If he used to be your friend…"

The other assassin's face was wooden. "Give it your best shot."

* * *

That night was completely opposite from the previous one--an almost-full moon shone brightly and what seemed like hundreds of stars dusted the sky. From the street, Quatre could see that Barton's window was shuttered. /Well, he's learning./

He had already decided poison was out--it was a nasty method, one Quatre didn't like to use if he had a choice. The type of attack he'd tried the night before most likely wouldn't work either--Barton would be ready for him this time. A knife in a crowd or back alley was impossible if your quarry never left his room. That didn't leave an awful lot of choices. 

Quatre entered the inn through the tiny kitchen door in the back, easily picking the lock. Inside, the cook was slumped in a chair, dozing, and the kitchenmaids were stretched out in front of the fire. Out in the main room, the innkeeper was also asleep, not even twitching as Quatre passed him.

On the top floor, there was dead silence, broken only by the occasional snore. Quatre carefully counted the doors, stopping before Trowa Barton's. Slowly and extremely carefully, he picked the lock.

Then in one swift movement, he knocked the door open.

He threw himself to the ground in a roll, coming up and launching into a high forward flip. The Northerner's stunned face barely registered as he lashed out with one foot, hitting Barton's right wrist and causing the knife in that hand to drop and skid across the wooden floor. Quatre landed in a crouch directly in front of Barton, sprang up, and pressed the edge of his knife against the other's throat.

From the look on Barton's face, he had been expecting stealth--the trademark of most assassins--*not*a quick, forward attack. Quatre silently sent up a prayer of thanks that it had worked.

The brunet's face was impassive. "You again?"

"From what I hear, I'm probably the only one who could make it this far alive," the blond replied matter-of-factly.

Barton didn't answer.

"Now, just like last night, you answer the question, you go free. Tonight, however, there's an extra condition. If you answer correctly, you must let me leave here alive and unharmed. All right?"

A nod.

"Fine, then. Name the leader of the Dragon Clan."

The Dragons were nomads who wandered the hills west of the Rassan desert, said to be some of the only sorcerers in the known world. They had close ties with the Raberbas, and Quatre was good friends with many of them. The Dragons were even more solitary and secretive than the desert clans, and it would be a miracle if Barton knew anything about them.

Although Quatre really wouldn't be surprised at much now.

"The two clan leaders are Chang Wufei and Chang Meiran."

All right, so maybe he was surprised. 

But not only did Barton know their names, he knew that Chang Wufei and his wife Meiran were exact equals in their control of the clan!

Quatre would have given quite a lot to know how he had found out so much.

"So," he said finally. "Your life for another night. Remember, I'm to leave unhurt."

Barton only nodded.

As Quatre left, some strange unknown impulse prompted him to turn around. "By the way," he said quietly, "you play the flute beautifully."

Then he was gone.

*****

Notes: Yeah, I gave Quatre the athletic/acrobatic ability in this one. ^_~ Feedback is craved, as always…tell whether or not to continue, please. ^_^

   [1]: mailto:desertrose@gundamwing.org



	3. Part 2

Title: Suspension (Part 2)

Title: Suspension (Part 2)

Author: Scheherazade

Email: [desertrose@gundamwing.org][1]

Pairings: Eventual 3+4, 2+H (I add pairings as they appear in the story)

Warnings: AU / violence / yaoi / more in the future

Notes: Sorry about the somewhat long wait for this chapter. ^_^;;; 

/…/--thoughts

*…*--italics

Quatre shifted for the third time in the last ten minutes, trying in vain to find a comfortable position in which he would *not* fall asleep. The tiny room was cramped and stifling, but it had a clear view of the Dancing Cat Inn, and he had to watch. Had to be ready for when Barton tried to leave, had to be able to follow him to his next location…

When he had stumbled out of the inn from his last encounter with the enigmatic man, he had been ready to collapse. It had finally hit him that he hadn't slept in…two days? Three? Something like that.

Close on the heels of that thought was another, reminding him that he *couldn't* leave. No one with half a brain--and Barton obviously had quite a bit more that that--would stay in one place after two attempts on their life. They'd try and throw the assassin off, hiding as best they could--not sit still waiting for him to return.

The only way Quatre could avoid losing Barton's trail was to wait until he tried to leave and then follow him. Assuming he could stay awake that long.

He mentally groaned. /A miracle would be nice./

Then the answer to his prayers came, in the form of a lone, black-haired girl strolling down the street. "Hilde!" Quatre hissed.

The girl's head jerked up, and she immediately shifted to a defensive stance before recognizing the blond. "Hey, Quatre," she replied, peering through the tiny opening that served as a window. "Out on a job?"

"Something like that," he replied wearily. "Listen, can you do me a really big favor?"

She frowned. "Well, it depends on what it is."

"There's a man who will try and leave this inn tonight. I've got to know where he'll go. Can you watch for him and wake me up as soon as he comes out?"

Hilde bit her lip. "Will I be here for the rest of the night?"

Quatre nodded. "Until mid-morning, if he doesn't leave before then. Why, did you and Duo have something--special--planned?" He grinned slyly.

She blushed fiercely. "I'm not telling *you*. If you keep up remarks like that, I'll decide not to watch for you after all."

"You mean you'll do it, then?" Quatre managed a grateful smile as unlatched the door. "It's a little cramped in here, but neither of us take up too much space, I'm forced to admit."

Hilde made a face is she squeezed in beside him. "A little cramped? This place is a closet!" Still, she settled in without further complaint, gluing her eyes to the building across the road.

"I can't thank you enough, Hilde. Sorry I'm keeping you out here."

Hilde waved away his thanks. "No problem. You need more sleep--you don't take care of yourself well enough. And it's not as if Duo will mind or anything."

"So there"--yawn--"is something you two planned"--yawn--"after all?"

The petite girl hit him, not quite lightly. "Shut it and go to sleep, Raberba." She paused, frowning slightly. "No, wait. A description of whoever I'm looking for might, just *might* help."

Quatre was slightly embarrassed. "Er, right. He's tall, a lean build, with brown hair that covers one side of his face. All right?"

Hilde stared at him. "That's all you can tell me? Don't you know anything else?"

"I've seen him a total of twice, both times at night! What else do you want?"

The girl looked at him in disbelief before pointedly turning her head the other way, muttering under her breath.

"He sticks out," Quatre reassured her. "The hairstyle is pretty distinctive."

"Yes, right, whatever." Then she froze. "Did you say you'd seen him twice? At night?"

"Right."

"As in--you've tried *and failed* to kill him already?" Hilde gawked at him open-mouthed. "You?"

Quatre felt his face redden uncomfortably. "It wasn't because--never mind. Just watch."

She nodded and turned back to face the window, still amazed. Quatre stretched out as best he could, feeling a fresh wave of weariness wash over him.

Within minutes, he was asleep.

* * *

"Quatre." Someone was shaking him. "Wake up, Quatre."

He didn't want to wake up. Something was telling him it was important, though…

"Quatre…"

What was Hilde doing in his room? Wait--he wasn't in his room--he was--

Across the street from the inn, waiting for Trowa Barton. He immediately jerked upright. "How long did it take to wake me up? Is he out of sight already?" He stuck his head out the window, rubbing at his eyes, then swung around to face Hilde. "Just what time is it, anyway?" 

She looked puzzled, a slight frown on her face. "Very late afternoon. You can relax though, I haven't seen him yet."

"*Late afternoon*? But it was only a two or three hours after midnight when I fell asleep! You were supposed to wake me up in the morning!"

"You were tired. You needed the rest," Hilde replied imperturbably. The puzzled look returned. "But listen! I thought you said this man would try to get out and leave before too long. It's almost evening, and there's been no one who fits your description at all."

Quatre stared at her. "He can't have *stayed*--oh shit." He mentally cursed himself for five types of a fool, beginning to calculate how long it would take to trace Barton's new hideout.

"What? Oh--another exit?"

Quatre nodded. "I'm an idiot. I assumed he wouldn't know about it--it's just a tiny door in the back of the kitchen--but there's no other way. Damn!"

Hilde looked at him carefully, concern in her eyes. "Are you all right, Quatre? It's not like you to let anything slip."

Quatre shook his head dismissively. "Really, I'm fine. I just forgot this once. It's not the end of the world!" 

/I wonder if I can worm a few good contacts out of Duo without telling him why I need them./ He couldn't afford to waste any time on this one.

"But--" Hilde began, then closed her mouth. "If you say so," she said slowly. Quatre could see just what was forming in her head."

"*Please* don't mention any of this to Duo," he said quickly. "It's--it's--just promise you won't. I have a good reason, I give you my word."

/The look in his eyes yesterday--/

Hilde's face reflected her indecision. "Well--"

"I promise I'll explain everything later. Just not right away," he begged.

The petite girl let out an exasperated sigh. "Fine, fine! I swear, you may be a cold-blooded assassin, but you have the most sorrowful pair of puppy-dog eyes I've ever seen!"

Quatre hid a smile. "Thanks, Hilde. It's important." He sighed. "I should search his room now, I guess. Sorry I kept you so long."

Hilde flashed him a grin. "I think I kept you, not the other way around. See you around, Quatre." With that, she slipped out of the room and was immediately swallowed by the crowd.

Quatre stationed himself by the window, on the extremely slim chance Barton hadn't left yet. As he expected, there was no sign of his target. Despite what he had said to Hilde about going on to check the man's room, he was waiting to leave his cubbyhole until after midnight--the time when he was most comfortable.

The streets began to clear as the sun sunk below the horizon, the area not being one to linger in after dark. By ten o'clock, the narrow alley was completely empty, save for a few sleeping urchins huddled against the walls.

Quatre told himself he *could* go in right then--the inhabitants would still be awake, yes, but it didn't matter if he wasn't trying to sneak in--but long habit held out, and he stayed in the hot, stuffy room. Out of sheer boredom, he began to softly recite one of the half-sung, half-chanted sagas that told the history of the Rassan desert clans. To his surprise and secret delight, he remembered every word. He could almost hear his teacher's melodic voice singing it to him for the first time…

His own voice was hoarse and raspy by the time he had finished, unused to speaking for so long on end. Fortunately, by then it was almost an hour after midnight, and he could safely assume everyone in the inn was asleep.

Quatre again entered by the back, moving through the dark rooms like a wraith. As he stood in the hall outside the room, the thought struck him that it could have been rented to someone else.

He shrugged mentally, reaching for the door handle. If it had been, he could easily get in and out without the current occupant noticing a thing.

Before he could even touch the knob, the door swung open and Trowa Barton stood silhouetted against the frame.

Only extremely quick reflexes saved the blond. Quatre threw himself to the floor as a wicked-looking throwing star thudded into the wall behind him. He could barely think straight, but years of training and experience were causing him to react automatically.

In a low, sweeping kick, he knocked Barton's feet out from under him as another throwing star zinged past his ear. He tackled the taller man, almost pinioning him before his thumb was bent backward and his hand went numb with pain.

Barton twisted away and scrambled to his feet, only slightly off-balance. But the first flash of pain was gone, and Quatre lunged again. They both went down, frantically grappling for the upper hand. A glancing blow caught Quatre and the chin, and another harder one in the stomach--he thought he landed a few good hits of his own--he struggle for his knife, knowing if he it wasn't ready as soon as he had the advantage, he'd lose that advantage immediately--a hard punch landed in his eyes and he saw stars--

Then somehow he had the upper hand, and his entire body was pinning the other man to the ground, holding a knifepoint at his throat.

For a minute the pair just lay there, breathing hard. Quatre fervently hoped no one had been wakened by the noise and was coming to investigate. They were in a *very* compromising position. 

Finally, he managed to gasp out "What--happened--to Milliardo--Peacecraft?"

The assassin could have sworn he saw the strangest mixture of relief and disappointment in the other's eyes. They were green, he noticed, a beautiful, dark mossy green.

"Milliardo Peacecraft supposedly--went crazy--berserk--during the Esanck Wars--when the kingdom of--Esanck--was split into the Five Kingdoms. He disappeared--and was never seen--again. What really happened--was that he deserted, ran away--and hid in the desert. He expected to die, but instead he--was found by a group of--wandering nomads, one of the desert clans. He changed his name--to Zechs Marquise, and stayed in--the desert for the rest of his life." The Northerner paused to take a deep breath, his breathing slowly returning to normal. "He founded a clan of his own later on. The Raberbas." He looked Quatre straight in the eyes. "Most of them are also blond and blue-eyed."

Quatre merely nodded, the adrenaline rush suddenly flowing away. He told himself he should get up, that it was especially dangerous now that Barton had figured out exactly what he was, but he really didn't want to move…

He was just about to force himself to stand up when Barton spoke. "Why don't you just kill me?"

"Huh?"

"Why don't you just kill me? Why do you bother giving me a chance?"

Quatre sighed and rubbed at his eyes, rolling off and sitting back on his heels. "Everyone deserves a little mercy," he said slowly. "I could just sneak up and knife someone in the dark, and they'd never know what hit them. But that's just *slaughter*, no better than leading animals to the chopping block. I think--that everyone deserves a chance to survive. No matter how small."

He fell silent, other voices echoing through his mind. "A true warrior is compassionate and fair," his father's stern voice told him. "Above all, be honest," his weapons-master lectured. "Why? *Why*?" his sister Iria pleaded. "They just kill for the sake of killing! Animals!" 

Quatre ruthlessly forced the memories from his mind. /No./

A soft voice broke into his thoughts. "I think--" Trowa Barton said, "I think I understand."

Quatre only nodded again listlessly. Slowly, he rose to his feet and turned to go.

Then a cascade of silvery notes rippled through the air, effectively freezing the blond in his tracks. The melody wrapped around him caressingly, sliding over his skin and sending shivers up and down his spine. It seemed to go on and on, suspending Quatre in space…

Then the song abruptly ended, and Quatre found there were tears stinging his eyes. He turned to face the tall brunet, who looked back at him with and unreadable expression in his eyes.

"Thank you," Quatre whispered.

* * *

/Fire. Sweltering heat and thick choking smoke--she couldn't see, couldn't breathe. Her eyes stung and watered, sweat poured down her face and the back of her neck. Fear, quickly rising to panic, enveloped her as she stumbled blindly through the campsite. Someone--no, something--was after her; she could feel its malignant presence in every direction. She tried to run, but her limbs seemed to be made of lead. She tried to call out *his* name, but she could only manage a hoarse cry; her lips were cracked and bleeding, her throat dry and burning. There were screams behind her, in front of her, all around her--she had to run, had to get away--someone was frantically calling her name-- Another choking wave of panic washed over her. What *was* her name?/

"Catherine! *Cathy*!"

Catherine Bloom sat bolt upright, breathing hard. /Just a dream,/ she told herself. /Just another dream./ One of the younger girls--Relena--stood over her, practically radiating worry and a touch of fear. "Cathy, what's wrong?" she asked.

"It's nothing," Catherine said, trying to look as reassuring as possible. "Just a nightmare."

"Are you sure you're all right? You were thrashing, and your mouth was moving like you were crying for help, but no sound was coming out!" Relena sounded scared. Catherine couldn't blame her; her last dream like this had been two years ago, about a year before the shy girl had arrived at the age of thirteen. She supposed that anyone unused to these strange nightmares would think she was having mad fits--

"Go back to sleep, Relena," Catherine said, firmly but gently. "I'll be fine."

Relena nodded a little reluctantly and managed a small smile before creeping out of the room.

Catherine fell back against her pillows. She'd thought that dream was over with two years ago. She could still feel the heat, hear the screams, sense *its* presence…

She shook her head violently. /Just a dream!/

/Just a dream./

* * * * *

More notes: Heh, I just noticed an accidental tie-in with the title near the end. Cool. ^_^ And feedback, as always, is wonderful.

   [1]: mailto:desertrose@gundamwing.org



	4. Part 3

"You wanted to see me

This was *supposed* to be out last Friday, but no, my stupid computer had to crash. . I don't like this version as much as the original one (the one that was *erased*), but I can't remember half of it so you have to put up with this. Sorry.

Title: Suspension (Part 3)

Author: Scheherazade

Email: [desertrose@gundamwing.org][1]

Archive: Please? *begs pathetically*

Pairings: Eventual 3+4, 2+H, and more as they come to me

Warnings: AU / fantasy / violence / language / eventual yaoi 

Notes: I should make a couple things clear. One, Trowa and Catherine are in no way, shape, or form related in this fic. Two, Relena from the previous chapter and Queen Relena of Esanck are most definitely not the same person. Relena's most likely just named after the Queen (who is long gone, by the way!). 

And chocolate chip cookies to anyone who figures out who the first speaker in the conversation at the beginning is! The second speaker is identified later, but I doubt anyone will get the first… ^_^

*…*--italics

/…/--thoughts

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes. Do you remember the scouts we sent south?"

Pause.

"Pardon me. Do you remember the scouts we sent south, *my lady*?

"Of course. What about them?"

"They've found him."

"They've found--*What*?"

"He's in Al'Rassan."

Pause 

"You're sure."

"Yes."

"I should have expected it. We finally give up looking for him, and he practically falls into our hands. The scouts are following my orders?" 

"Yes. They won't succeed."

"Of course not. That's not the point." Pause. "He's right there, right in the city…it's perfect. Tell the troops we're moving out next week."

"They're not expecting to leave for two more months."

"I don't allow anyone to question me!"

"Acknowledged…my lady."

* * * * *

"Weak, weak, WEAK!"

Quatre launched into another series of roundhouse kicks that tore the punching bag from its hook and sent it flying across the small room. Fury blazing in his blue-green eyes, he threw himself after it, tackling it fiercely. Straddling the leather bag, he let loose a succession of punches that would have smashed his target to a pulp, had it been human. To him, it *was* human--Trowa Barton, to be exact, and he took out all his frustrations at the other man--and himself--as savagely as possible. 

Weak, that's what he was. One question, and he let his defenses slip. One song, and they were gone altogether! Asinine, silly, *soft*! He slammed a fist where the face would have been, before roughly yanking the bag upright and rehanging it from the ceiling.

It was all Barton's fault. If he'd just stayed North where he belonged, Quatre wouldn't be feeling this way now. Him and his cursed flute--Quatre loosed another set of particularly brutal blows.

/I should just tell Duo where to find him./

But he knew Duo, and his way of revenge. Barton would die slowly, painfully, inch by inch. And as much as Quatre wished he could let his fellow assassin do such things to the man--as much as he wished he could do them himself--he know he'd never be able to willingly inflict torture like that on anyone, directly or indirectly.

The thought only made him more disgusted with himself. He was so damned *weak*! 

And the punching bag was no longer Trowa Barton. It was Quatre's own faults and deficiencies, his failures and weaknesses. Driven by an unnatural fury, ignoring his strained and aching muscles, he threw himself at the bag, attacking again and again, faster and faster-- 

His knees buckled and he collapsed on a heap on the sandstone floor. Shaking, he pulled himself to his feet, sweat dripping from pale gold bangs. His head feel forward, like a puppet cut from its strings.

"Weak," he whispered.

* * * * * 

A quarter of an hour later, an angry voice drifted up to the small room. "Where is he? The assassin?"

Quatre gritted his teeth. He did *not* want to deal with an enraged client right now. 

He also didn't have a choice.

Carefully smoothing any trace of emotion from his face, he stalked out of the room and down the steep, uneven stairs. As he expected, the curly-haired man who had hired him stood glaring at Najia, the woman Quatre rented a room from.

"What's the problem?" he asked coolly.

The man swung around, fists clenched. Najia took that opportunity to slip away, her eyes wide and frightened. "Why is he still alive?" he demanded. "I have *orders* to make sure he's dead--d'you have any idea what will happen to me if he isn't?"

"Not really," Quatre replied off-handedly. "I don't particularly care, either." 

The man's face darkened and he took a step forward, raising his fists. "Listen, you--"

Blue-green eyes slitted dangerously. "You're threatening the wrong person." 

The man opened his mouth to reply when he noticed the knife that had appeared in Quatre's hand. He went from flushed to pale and stepped backward, lowering his fists.

"I'm not requiring any more payment until I've completed the job," the blond continued as if nothing had happened. "I will keep trying as long as you like--but don't come here again unless you've got something important to say."

"Why shouldn't I go to someone else?" the other challenged somewhat feebly.

Quatre shrugged. "Go, for all I care," he replied. "But I'm the best. Anyone will tell you that."

He turned and strolled out of the room.

* * * * * 

As Quatre stood before the now familiar door, his smoldering anger flared again. This time he would make *sure* Trowa Barton didn't get away. 

A tense moment passed. Nothing happened.

Carefully, silently, Quatre edged forward and gently tried the door. It was unbarred. 

He nudged it open silently, tensed for an attack.

His jaw dropped.

Barton was just *sitting* there on the edge of the cot, staring straight forward. He glanced at the blond as he stepped inside, then returned his gaze to the wall in front of him.

What did that man think he was doing? Sitting there like--like--a practice target! Did he think this was that easy?

Quatre forced himself to focus, only to find a pair of dark green eyes fixed on him thoughtfully. He remembered the night before--those same eyes staring at him piercingly, as if they could see into his thoughts--

His anger went from white-hot to icy cold.

"Giving up already?" he asked derisively, putting as much scorn as possible into the words.

The eyes flickered, as though their possessor had been hit. Then they hardened. "Whatever I may have been doing isn't important."

"Really."

The other man continued as if he hadn't spoken. "I have--a favor--to ask of you." The words were forced out as if they were choking him.

The assassin leaned back against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow. "Why under the stars should I help you?"

"Just listen first…please."

"Talk." Quatre had no intention of helping this man in any way, but his curiosity was getting the better of him again. What would drive anyone to ask a favor of the man trying to kill them?

"I would--appreciate it--if you could describe the person who commissioned you. Or name them."

And Quatre felt his thrice-damned conscience kicking in. Didn't everyone deserve to know why they died? Who killed them?

Hating himself for it, he answered "Fine."

Barton's green eyes flashed surprise before his lowered his head slightly, obscuring them by a fall of coppery hair. "Thank you."

"I don't know his name. He's middle-aged, fairly tall--taller than me, at least--and thickset. He's got curly brown hair and a medium-sized scar in the shape of a sunburst on the back of his left hand. That's all I can tell you."

Barton's face went dead white. "Nikol," he whispered almost inaudibly. "They're coming."

The total fear in his eyes jolted Quatre. "Who's coming?" he asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Those same eyes abruptly went hostile. "Why should I tell you? You're only going to kill me. Speaking of which--" He hesitated for a moment, as if to make up his mind. Then, taking, a deep breath, he continued, "Speaking of which, hurry up with the question."

Quatre's eyed narrowed. There was something in his voice…

"You don't have to tell me," the blond answered, ignoring the last remark. He *was* going to figure it out. "I'm just curious, after my meetings with him."

"What did he say?"

"That he had orders to see you killed, and he seemed very afraid of what would happen if those orders weren't carried out. And you're both Northerners--there aren't many who'd chase someone all the way down here."

"I see. It's--definitely who I think it is, then."

"Someone other than you thought at first?"

"Yes."

Quatre waited silently.

Barton set his jaw. "One way or another I won't be around when they actually get here."

Everything suddenly clicked into place. 

He was planning on being dead by then. He was going to purposely answer the question wrong so Quatre would kill him--evidently, it was better than being here when *they* came--whoever *they* were. He actually wanted to die.

And Quatre would be damned before he'd give him that kind of satisfaction.

He would have to sneak his question in somehow, so Barton didn't recognize it for what it was. And he had an idea…

"I can't imagine anyone from the North who'd track only one man all the way down here. You must be important."

Barton shrugged slightly. "They're--he's--extremely rich."

"He?"

"At first I thought it was a group, but now I know it's one man. He's got dozens of underlings who follow his every order, though."

/Come on…talk just a little more…/

"There's only one kingdom I know of that has such rich or powerful subjects--that is, I'm assuming it's not the king after you," Quatre commented, seemingly casually. "Are you from Ellthrie?"

Barton hesitated.

/Come on…/

"Yes," he answered quietly.

Quatre could barely restrain a grin of triumph. "Congratulations," he said. "You get to keep your life for another night."

Barton's jaw dropped. "What?"

"You answered the question correctly. I'm not killing you." He pushed himself away from the doorframe, as if he was about to leave.

The other man's mouth opened and closed in disbelief, giving him the appearance of a landed fish. "But--"

"I asked you if you're from Ellthrie. You answered yes," Quatre said, inserting a touch of impatience into his voice. Inside, he was exhilarated.

/I won this time./

And with that thought, his anger faded. He had outmaneuvered this mysterious foreigner who seemed to know everything. That was enough--for now.

"How did you know?" the Northerner asked abruptly.

"Know what?" Quatre replied, feigning ignorance.

"You know what I'm talking about." His voice was a mixture of accusation and--admiration?

Of course not.

The assassin shrugged. "I guessed. I can read minds. I can predict your every move. Take your pick." He wasn't going to explain himself again. He wasn't going to slip like last night.

Trowa didn't push the subject. Instead, he asked, "What else do you know about me?"

Quatre didn't mind a chance to show off a little. "You were once name Triton, the son of Reishin and Linnaea Barton. For reasons unknown, you changed your name to Trowa, disowned yourself from the Barton family, and disappeared. They sent out searches. What they didn't know was that you'd begun raiding their lands. Eventually they caught on, formally renounced you, and began trying to kill you. You've been continually on the run since then, but you've defeated every single assassin--well, almost. Sometime after that, you began taking selective assassination commissions yourself, which made you even more enemies, which caused even more attempts on your life. If you ask me, I don't know how you can be sure just who it is that's after you now."

Trowa regarded him with something close to amazement. He started to speak, then stopped, shaking his head. "Never mind. I doubt you'd tell me how you found it all out, anyway."

For a moment, Quatre wondered if his reaction to knowing out Duo was here would be as strong as Duo's had been to knowing *he* was here. Not that he was about to try and find out. 

"As to how I know who it is--I know the man who hired you and who he follows. Nikol's--owner, practically--has a very, very good reason to kill me." He hesitated for a moment. "Have you ever heard of Heero Yuy?"

Duo's voice flashed through his mind. /"Then he met Heero Yuy, became screwed up in politics--among other things--, lost his so-called sense of 'right'--"/

"No."

"He's general--very intelligent, very rich, very powerful, and very corrupt general. In Ellthrie, that's the perfect soldier. I--used to think he was different, that I could make him different. I was only 18 or 19!" he said defensively, in response to the look on Quatre's face. "I'm not such an idiot now." 

Quatre certainly hoped so. He wouldn't have thought Trowa to be that naïve. It sounded almost like he'd gotten some of his ideas from--

"I read a few too many idealistic books," Trowa said, actually sounding a little embarrassed. "I still spend far too much time reading for my own good--but not trash." 

Quatre flinched inwardly. "I see." 

/Talk about something else, anything else--/

"For instance, the so-called autobiography of Queen Relena of the Esanck Kingdom. She thought she could make the world perfect and that no one was truly wicked. She gives the supposed account of how she "saved" one man--a ruthless killer, emotionless and cold-hearted. She wrote that she brought out his inner kindness and humanity and "taught him how to live again", whereupon he fell in love with her. Completely fictional trash, but it's the type of thing I wanted to believe." He paused. "Have you ever read sometihng like that?"

Quatre stared fixedly at the wall across the room. "No. I can't read."

For just a split second, Trowa looked taken aback. "Oh," he said quietly.

Quatre gritted his teeth in frustration. *Why* did all his shortcomings have to show before this one man? Why couldn't they just stay hidden, like they had for so long-- 

That was when he noticed it was no longer pitch black outside. The sky was beginning to lighten--barely enough to be noticeable, but enough to tell Quatre that he should have left long ago. Without another word, he slipped out the door.

"Wait." 

He looked back over his shoulder, only to meet those dark eyes again.

"We're probably going to be seeing quite a lot of each other in the future." The corner of his mouth twitched, as if in the beginnings of a smile. "Maybe--maybe you could tell me your name."

The blond hesitated. Why tell this man *anything*?

Why shouldn't he?

"Quatre. I'm Quatre."

* * * * *

   [1]: mailto:desertrose@gundamwing.org



	5. Part 4

Chang Meiran of the Dragon Clan stifled yet another yawn

Title: Suspension (Part 4)

Author: Scheherazade

Email: desertrose @ gundamwing.org

Archive: [www.ontheqt.org][1] (Thanks Hilary!! *massive glomps*)

Warnings: AU / fantasy / eventual yaoi / violence 

Pairings: Eventual 3x4/4x3, 2+H, 5+M, and more as they come 

Notes: *coughs* Sorry, sorry, sorry, for the extreme delay. I wish I could blame it all on school, but there are a couple new obssessions that certainly didn't help me write any faster… (*glances guiltily at tempting pile of Weiss Kreuz ficcies*). Ahem. And sorry for the lack of TQ content--we'll be getting back to them next time. I really was going to have a nice long scene between them (I spent literally *days* until it was perfect!) but the silly plot got in the way. Hope you enjoy all the same! One more note--about a month has passed since the last part. Hopefully that's made clear later on.

Dedication: To Ore, because she gave me a small idea that ended up swallowing the fic (or my plans for the fic). Otherwise, you'd be waiting another five and a half weeks for this.

*…* -- italics

/…/ -- thoughts

The dark-haired man bent over the shallow bowl of water, smooth as glass. He needed no commands or gestures--instead he merely *focused*--

A sharp, clear image appeared on the water's surfacem of a brown-haired man who was smiling as he spoke, sitting on the floor across from a blond with a skeptical expression on his face.

The sorcerer's eyebrows shot up. "Both of them?" He concentrated again and theimage changed, this time to a curly-haired man arguing with the same blond, who now looked bored and out of patience.

Heero Yuy's eyebrows raised even more, a smile crossing his lips. "Ironic. And absolutely perfect."

The image dissolved into thousands of tiny ripples.

* * * *

Duo Maxwell stared at the brightly-painted caravan wagons in shoock. It was true, then, the story that was already spreading through the city like wildfire.

The Dragon Clan had come to Al'Rassan.

The legendary nomads had never, ever come to the city before--in fact, they practically shunned human contact. There were all sorts of strange stories about them--that every one of them, down to the smallest child, were powerful sorcerers who could move mountains, that they were human by day and dragon by night.

He thought he remembered Quatre mentioning them once, but he had no why. He realized with a start it had been almost a month since he'd last seen Quatre, when his fellow assassin had stopped by to ask about Trowa Barton. Trowa--

Duo tried to stop that train of thought before it even started. Trowa had to be dead by now. Which meant Duo would never know--

A sudden thought occurred to him as he gazed at the colorful wagons and bustle of activity. If anyone could tell him, the Dragon Clan could. Assuming, of course, that they really were sorcerers of some sort--it was entirely possible that the stories were completely made up and they simply loved to be solitary.

There was only one way to find out.

* * * *

Chang Meiran of the Dragon Clan stifled yet another yawn. She had to finish this inventory by tomorrow--to at least make it appear as if they were here for no other reason than trade. But she was finding herself yawning more and more frequently, blinking to keep her eyes open.

How did Wufei end up on guard duty, strolling around in the open, while she was cramped in a tiny, sweltering caravan wagon, going through a case of jade carvings and painstakingly recording every one? This was distinctly unfair. One would think that when you were the leader of a Clan, you wouldn't be stuck with duties like this.

There was obviously no justice in this world.

Finally she gave up, telling the inventory to go anatomically impossible things to itself. It was who knew how many hours after midnight and she needed *sleep*.

Meiran stumbled into her caravan, tripping on the small flight of steps up to the entrance. At another time she might have cursed the offending steps and taken some of her frustrations out on them. Right now, she was hot, she was aching, and she was exhausted.

Which was why when a black-clad figure with a long chestnut braid suddenly appeared in the doorway, she was not feeling terribly hospitable.

"You chose the wrong time to sneak in," she snapped in extremely bad Common as she moved to her feet, glaring daggers at the taken aback man. "If you're planning to rob or otherwise injure me, you chose the wrong person as well, and if you take one more step you *will* regret it. Otherwise, who are you, what are you doing, and why can't it wait until morning?"

The man blinked. "I--er--"

"Well?" Meiran demanded, feeling slightly more awake. "What is it?"

"Um--well--I'm not trying to kill you!" he finally blurted out. "Or steal anything," he added, almost as an afterthought. 

Meiran almost raised an eyebrow. So he automically associated sneaking in somewhere in the dead of the night with murder rather than burglary? Interesting. All in black, too--at the moment, she would guess he was an assassin.

Then she realized something. He was speaking in the language of the Rassan desert clans.

/Where under the stars did he learn *that*?/

She replied in the same tongue. "That's fortunate for you. Now would you mind explaining exactly what you're doing here?"

A look of relief crossed the man's face. "You do understand! This is the only other language I know--no offense, but your Common's not that great." He shrugged apologetically.

She didn't bother to tell him this particular dialect was almost a second language to most of the Dragons. After all, the Raberbas were practically the only other humans they came into contact with--

The Raberbas. Of course.

This man had to know Quatre. No doubt the other boy--no, Quatre would be around twenty by now, Meiran sharply reminded herself, he was only six years younger than she--no doubt he was an assassin, too. It would fit the blond perfectly--he was one of the most dangerous people Meiran had ever met.

/Stupid,/ she scolded herself. /You can't afford to zone out like this!/

The man was staring at her oddly. She arched one eyebrow. "What, don't I look foreign enough for you?"

He flushed. "No--I mean--that's not what--for crying out loud, that's not why I was looking at you! I was--oh, never mind."

She hid a smile. If she didn't want to be here, she would make sure this intruder felt the same way. "You still haven't explained why you're here."

He managed to regain some of his composure and swept her a low, flourishing bow. "Duo Maxwell, at your service. I--I've a got a few very important questions." Seeing the next comment forming on her lips, he hastily added, "There's no way I could have snuck in here in the daytime, and it's really important no one sees me. Your guards are way too alert."

Meiran's eyes narrowed. What was the need for all this secrecy? And if these questions were just idiotic curiosity about the 'strange foreigners'--

She would not be held responsible for resulting damages.

For some odd reason, though, she felt as if she should give this man more credit than just a gawker. /Nataku alone knows why./ 

"The reason I've come to you is because it's said the Dragon Clan are--are sorcerers. That they know everything there is to know about magic. So--so I don't know if any of that is true, but if it is you've got to help me." His strange violet eyes were pleading, something that seemed out of character for this man.

Meiran hesitated.

/He's a close friend of Quatre's,/ she reminded herself, /or Quatre wouldn't have taught him the language./ And she trusted Quatre with her life, with any of her family's lives.

With this in mind, she reached *out*--

Almost imperceptibly at first, a blue haze began to shimmer in front of her upraised palm, soidifying into a brightly-glowing sigil. At the sight of it, Duo almost sagged in relief, mumbling something in another language that sounded like thanks to a god.

"You recognize the sign," she stated quietly, releasing the energy and letting it drain away.

He nodded. "Yeah--I've never actually seen it for a mage, but Deathscythe--" He abruptly fell silent.

Meiran's eyes widened. Deathscythe. She was sure that was one of them.

She reached *out* again, but this time to brush across the other's mind in a feather-light touch, looking for confirmation. At the familiar sign, she bowed deeply, hands flat at her sides. "Greetings, Bearer."

This man carried one of the Living Blades, was mentally linked to the dangerous weapon that almost had a consciousness of its own. Just as Wufei was Bearer of Shenlong, Duo Maxwell was Bearer of Deathscythe.

Meiran raised her head to see him look away. "I used to be."

/*Used* to be?/

"My husband is also a Bearer," she said, sinking down to one of the large floor cushions and gesturing for him to sit on the one across from her. "That means you're always welcome here--although I'd prefer it if you feel welcome in the daytime rather than the middle of the night."

Duo readily dropped to the floor, leaning back and supporting himself on his hands. "So the Dragons really are sorcerers. I thought that was mostly tales--but then, for the longest time I thought the Blades were only tales, too. Hell, I thought the Dragon Clan, period, was a tale."

"Not all of us," she said quickly. "Wufei--my husband--for instance. He couldn't do magic to save his life, but he's the best swordsman in three countries, with or without Shenlong." Try as she might, she couldn't keep that note of pride out of her voice.

"That's good to know," Duo replied, grinning. "I would feel slightly threatened if a legendary clan made up completely of sorcerers suddenly decided to drop in, when they've *avoided* human contact throughout history. Actually, that's probably how most of the city feels right now."

She grinned back. "Let them think that. A little fear is good for people."

Duo snorted. "More than a little, lady--er, what was your name?"

"Chang Meiran."

"Right, then. I have a couple questions, Lady Meiran."

"I can't guarantee I'll be able to answer them, but I'll try," she said truthfully.

/Can't guarantee I'll be *allowed* to answer them is more like it./

"All right," he agreed. "Well, first of all, do you know of other types of magic? I mean besides this kind of sorcery, or the Blades--I've heard there are people who can do other things like read minds and stuff--" He lapsed into silence.

Meiran frowned. This sounded familiar--now if she could only remember--

"Actually, yes," a new voice answered smoothly. Meiran looked up to see Wufei lounging in the doorway. Just how long had he been there, anyway? 

Hopefully not long enough to hear the comment she'd made about his swordsmanship. Just because it was true didn't mean he needed to hear it. The world might end if either of the pair began *praising* each other.

The tiny, smug smile he gave her as he dropped to the floor beside her shattered that hope. Even so, she leaned against his side comfortably out of habit, using him as a backrest. 

Duo's head had snapped up at the first sound, and a hand had immediately gone to his belt. Now he relaxed somewhat, looking intently at the black-haired man. "You've heard of them?"

Wufei nodded. "Before we begin, I am Chang Wufei. You are?"

"Duo Maxwell," Meiran interjected in their language. "Former Bearer of Deathscythe. He knows Quatre." Talk about it later, she sent with her eyes. "Like I said," she continued to Duo in the Rassan tongue, "Wufei's not a sorcerer, but he knows everything there is to know about magic. At least, he thinks he does."

Wufei snorted. "Fine thing to say when you're using me as a piece of furniture."

She ignored that.

"Anyways," Wufei continued, turning his attention back to Duo, "yes, I have heard of these people. Hundreds of years ago there were many of them--some could read thoughts, some could feel other's emotions, some could see into the future. All things normal sorcery can't do. I've only read of all this, though--their numbers began to decrease long ago, and now there's no one left."

"Not quite," Meiran said suddenly, her memory triggered. "There are still some with the potential, but there's no way for it to be activated."

Wufei nodded slowly. "Yes…that sounds right."

The news didn't seem to put Duo any more at ease. "So you know about them. That's good. Can you tell me something else--if by some freak chance someone did have that talent, would it be connected to 'normal' magic? I mean, would they have to be a sorcerer to have one of these talents?" His voice was a little strained, and Meiran sensed that *this* was the real reason he'd come here. 

"No, exactly the opposite," Wufei answered. "The two are never connected. I have no idea why, but it's impossible to be a sorcerer *and* have one of the forgotten talents--that's what they're known as."

Duo let out a long sigh. The relief in his eyes was almost embarrassing to see, and Meiran felt an awkward silence descending on the small group. To break it, she remarked dryly, "You, admitting you don't know something? Now that's a first."

"Hush, woman."

"Say that to my face in the practice ring."

"Is that a challenge?"

"Dead in the black, scholar-boy!"

A muffled snicker broke their familiar banter. "Scholar-boy?" Duo asked, hiding a smile behind his hand.

Meiran shrugged.

"I mean, Wu-man doesn't seem like the type of guy who would put with nicknames," he continued, eyes glinting mischievously.

Wufei's face changed from mock annoyance to outraged indignation. "Wu-man?" he repeated incredulously.

The look only heightened when Meiran burst into hysterical laughter, collapsing on the floor. "Wu-man--" she managed to gasp before going off again. "Wufei, the look on your face is *priceless*--"

Wufei narrowed his eyes and leveled his iciest, most dangerous glare at Duo. "Don't--*ever*--say that again."

The effect was somewhat ruined by Meiran's uncontrollable laughter in the background. "Oh, I'll never forget that one--"

"Thanks a lot, Maxwell."

He shrugged, eyes dancing. "Sorry. Sort of."

"If you weren't a Bearer, you'd be regretting this by now."

If anything, the smile grew. "As much as I'd love to stay and chat, I really should be going. Hilde'll be waiting for me, even though I told her not to." The tone of Duo's voice was affectionate. "Maybe I'll see you around, huh?"

Meiran was sitting up again, wiping at her eyes. "Hopefully," she said, grinning at him. "Oh, and can you deliver a message for us?"

Duo's face became guarded. "Depends."

"Just tell Quatre we're here, if you can. He'll find out before long, but I'd prefer sooner rather than later."

The look on Duo's face nearly made Meiran burst into laughter again. "You--Quatre--he knows you? You know him?" he gasped.

"You could say that," Wufei answered, now looking decidedly amused at Duo's astonishment.

"The language you're speaking now is the Raberba dialect," Meiran added. "That's Quatre's clan, if you didn't know. They wander nearest to the hills, and we meet with them once or twice a year."

Duo's mouth opened and closed a couple times before snapping shut. "Figures," he said under his breath. "Sure, I'll pass the word on, if you'll do one thing for me. He doesn't know I'm a Bearer, and I'd like to keep it that way. Please?"

The pair exchanged glances. "All right," Meiran agreed. She didn't think it would do any harm.

Duo smiled in relief. "I'll find him tomorrow. Until later, then!" He flashed them a cheery wave before slipping out the door and into the night.

The two Dragons sat in silence for a moment. "What do you think of him?" Meiran finally asked.

"Dangerous," Wufei immediately replied, confirming Meiran's opinions. "Not like Quatre, but still not someone to treat lightly, for all he acts like an idiot."

Meiran nodded. "I think there's more to all this than he's letting on," she said slowly. "And I, for one, would like to know what happened to his Blade."

/What was it Master Long said? Severe mental and emotional disturbance if the two are separated?/

"Exactly." Wufei slipped an arm around Meiran's waist and she leaned back against him, eyes slipping shut. "Perhaps Quatre can tell us something about his past--it'll be hard if we can't tell him why we want to know, though."

"Mmm," she replied in affirmation, her earlier exhaustion suddenly making itself felt again. She heard Wufei laugh softly, before she felt herself being gently lifted and carried to the small room at the end of the caravan wagon, where a soft pallet awaited her. The last thing she was aware of was a hand smoothing her hair and a soft "Goodnight, airen," before she slipped into oblivion.

* * * *

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Duo Maxwell felt free. He finally knew exactly what Trowa had done that night years ago--and what he *hadn't*.

He hadn't been the one who actually destroyed 'Scythe. Duo let out a long breath at the thought. How long had he agonized over whether or not the one he thought was his closest friend, his fellow Bearer, had actually done--that? But from what the two Dragons had said, and he trusted them already, there was no way Trowa could have had that power.

He thrust his hands into his pockets, feeling his braid whip behind him as he continued through the dark streets. As for what else Trowa had done--he was certainly dead now, by Quatre's hand. That was punishment enough. And now maybe Duo could begin to let things go.

/I have Hilde now./

The thought brought a smile to his face. If none of this had happened, he never would have found Hilde. Something to thanks Trowa for? Strange thought.

He let out another deep breath, turning down a twisting side street. He had a new life. Trowa had paid. He could let go.

/Let go./

It was at that moment that a movement in a second-story window caught his attention.

The moon was a delicate crescent, casting barely enough light to see by. But what light it did provide shone directly on the window--and one glimpse was more than enough for Duo.

He felt his mouth go dry and his knees weaken, nails biting deep into his palms as his fists clenched.

No. It couldn't be.

NO!

Quatre--he couldn't have, he was too good--but how--

No, no, no, he couldn't still be alive. It wasn't possible.

Duo turned and ran.

* * * * 

   [1]: http://www.ontheqt.org/



End file.
